


Slowing

by cosmotronic



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/F, Non-Explicit Sex, Realisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:23:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmotronic/pseuds/cosmotronic
Summary: Wisdom doesn't always come with age, but even Isabela knows she has to stop running eventually.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just Hawke and Isabela being perfectly broken over the course of DAII.
> 
> Comments and feedback welcome.

Hawke's all long lines and scruffy looks. Messy hair, crooked smile, eyes that laugh. Not beautiful, Isabela muses, not even pretty, really. At least not pretty like the dressed-up maidens of Hightown or the painted whores they pass in seedy Lowtown. But Isabela is drawn to her; Hawke is tempting like the glint of gold, striking like the flash of steel and as alluring as the moonlit ocean. The young rogue flirts terribly, incessantly, and plays cards badly though Isabela suspects she often loses on purpose. She responds hungrily to Isabela’s advances and their liaisons have no delusions of romance, no expectations of commitment, no requirements for fidelity. Hawke always lets Isabela take her place on top, always lets her steer their encounters but has enough spirit to never be weak or submissive beneath her. A suitable distraction for a pirate queen.

They rut in all the places that have no meaning. Hawke's fun, inventive, a perfect scoundrel, and Isabela enjoys her company more than she expects but she doesn't want this to become special. They go on mad adventures together and then they meet in nameless alleys. Sometimes, faceless tents while companions slumber nearby. Often, Isabela's small room at The Hanged Man. Once, Hawke's soft bed, but that had led to uncomfortable discussions about love and such.

Love. She can't ever remember being so naive as to think love is anything but a weakness. Hawke says it's pretty persistent, she reckons it can go pester someone else. She's harsher than she means to be. She can recognise the playfulness in Hawke’s prodding. She's only teasing, tickling at her in that infuriating manner where Hawke absolutely has to know everything about everyone. Later, she tells herself she only imagined the shadow of disappointment on Hawke’s open face and the stab of guilt in her own tight chest.

They’re just not built to be tied down like that. Hawke's too wild and so very, very young and she's... well, she’s not ready.

She figures she has about eight years on Hawke. Oh, she hides it well, having celebrated her twenty-ninth nameday for at _least_ the last four years. But there is still a clear difference. She is seasoned, worldly; she’s seen it all and bought the hats to prove it. She knows there's no point in thinking too far beyond the material or attaching emotions to encounters or making promises. Hawke, sweet thing that she is, is raw and excitable with a trusting soul and an eagerness that Isabela finds herself indulging more and more.

Not that Hawke is an innocent. No innocent could do that delicious thing Hawke does with her tongue. Isabela has a few other regular rides but they never seem quite as satisfying any more, don’t leave her trembling and… Maker, _wet_ in quite the same way as when she’s been with Hawke. Or lately just thinking of being with Hawke. She finds herself anticipating their tumbles, can’t wait for the dangers to pass so she can pounce, pin that wickedly enticing body down and have her way. She's in trouble, she knows, but at least the addiction is purely physical.

She uses Hawke’s body for pleasure and for profit. A willing thigh to grind against and a skilled sword arm to help her get her hands on a ship and maybe get those bloody qunari off her back. If only they could get right to it.

Hawke is generous and ridiculously helpful, albeit in a suffering, sarcastic way. Hawke likes pretending she has better things to do than stick her nose in other people's business, but somehow still manages to save the kitten or find the lost bauble or whatever other drudgery the residents of Kirkwall can't be bothered to do themselves. Isabela finds it frustrating, annoying, _endearing_.

When she finds herself lingering too long after sex, she knows she's in danger. When she finds herself making excuses to help _pick flowers_ for the herbalist, in the hope of Hawke's favour, just to see that smile directed at her, she knows she has to leave. She flees at the most opportune moment, during a fight in Lowtown. The qunari are there, the thief is there and she'll never have a better chance than this. She stops in the brief time between one foe falling and the next noticing her, one of those hanging moments where seconds seem like hours. She decides, she steps away, she goes. She pretends not to notice Hawke’s incredulous expression or feel the hurt lashing her coward's back.

Isabela knows Hawke can handle it. Quick on her toes and deadlier with a dagger than anyone - even Isabela - though pride and vanity stop the pirate from admitting it. The rogue has been toughened and tested during her years in Kirkwall, has hardened to harsh city life and built walls from her loss. Danger seems to bounce off her and if things ever get really dicey, Hawke won't be alone. Varric and Aveline will look out for her, they're better companions than she is, better friends, better people, better everything.

Wall-Eyed Sam is dead and she’s got the relic in her hands. This object, so small, the cause of so much grief. Isabela is a materialistic person, no self-respecting pirate could ever be otherwise, but she struggles to see the importance of the parchment and leather she has traded so much for. The gold leaf is worn, the clasps stiff from a thousand years of bondage. The words are faded but thousands are willing to die for them. Kill for them. Destroy a city for them.

The Arishok has the right of her. Isabela is a coward, not worthy. It wasn’t a problem before and she still doesn't feel the urge to right all her wrongs. Only with this one she must measure her worth. She's halfway to Ostwick when she realises it and feels the sick in her stomach. She won’t do it for the dead or the innocent or the bloody Qun, but for Hawke. And when brave, foolish Hawke stands up to a qunari twice her size to protect her, to save her from her own mistake it's too much.

It becomes easier to leave, harder not to return. She raids and plunders and brawls and tumbles, desperately grasping strands of memories and tying off the knots. She doesn't want reminding of a life of lost ships and stolen relics and crooked smiles. She wants what came before all that and she tries so hard, but she can't quite slip back to how she was. How she was before Kirkwall, before her. She sees her bright face on every conquest, sees her lithe motions in every fight, hears her own name tripping off tongues, never quite the same. Hawke had a way of saying her name that fit better than any other voice. _Isabela_. She hears the same syllables from other lips; it doesn’t sound as utterly perfect as that exasperated whine or that breathy whisper. _Isabela_. Not Captain or pirate or whore or bitch or anything else. _Isabela_. A teasing taunt or tossed out in the throes of ecstasy. _Bela_.

The call becomes too great, the song of a siren with wind-tangled hair and sea-sparkling eyes and a tongue that makes her weak at the knees. Isabela ignores it and sinks into drink and morosity, travels far from the City of Chains, far from that blasted place that trapped her too long. Months become years but gradually her options fade away, open paths narrow one by one until eventually she can't chart any other course. Hawke’s the only star in her sky, there's nothing else left to navigate by.

So she comes back. She doesn't go to Hawke's home, doesn't search for her, can't bear the accusing looks of the others, but she sits where Hawke will find her. The Hanged Man hasn't changed much. Still the same squalor, still the same swill. Four walls of memories and regret on tap.

Hawke's older. Harder. The last traces of youthful spontaneity gone. Irreverence replaced with solemnity. There’s a tightness about her eyes, eyes that are duller than Isabela remembers. Isabela wonders how much betrayal a person can bear before they stop caring, before the trick ceases to surprise. She wonders how many lies a person can endure before they simply shutter their open mind. She wonders how much of Hawke she stole when she left, then kicks herself. Hawke's no simpering maiden to have spent her days pining over the likes of her. Hawke's a lady and a bloody hero and she is just scum, less than nothing.

Castillon's in town and she can't deal with him alone. She can almost read Hawke's thoughts when she braves that big, empty Hightown mansion to ask... beg for help. The thought that she only came back for this and that she would never have returned otherwise. Would never have returned for her. That ships and revenge mean more than friendship and feelings. Isabela wants to scream at her, kiss her and tell her how wrong she is but her resolve falters; she shrinks under that tired, resigned gaze and instead she settles for selling her plan.

It's her idea but Hawke is rougher with her than she expects, binds her tighter than she needs to, hits her harder than is required. She doesn't know this Hawke and there's a tiny pang of fear when she's handed over to Velasco. Perhaps Hawke wants nothing to do with her, perhaps she really does deserve to be sold off for a handful of coin. The nagging doubt quietens when the warehouse door collapses before a red and black whirlwind. Isabela has missed seeing Hawke in action, perhaps even more so than the sex. The grin is colder and the taunts forced but the lithe fluidity, the efficient motions and the glorious dance, the almost joyous celebration of violence, they are all perfectly familiar.

The fight is over almost before it begins and then he is there. Castillon, offering her another coward's way out. A ship, freedom, no strings. She tells Hawke it's the pirate's way, it's just good business. Hawke the scoundrel would have allowed the deal, loved the elegant simplicity, mildly berated her afterwards. Hawke the hero shouts her down and drives her daggers through Castillon's chest, blood dripping down her arms. It's brutal, terrifying economy. Isabela is angry and afraid and it's a struggle to keep her tone light, her voice from cracking when Hawke snaps back at her, mentioning the relic for the first time. Isabela knows there's more to come, can feel it simmering, but she drops the matter and spares the pain; she knows Hawke did the right thing, as always.

Her instincts scream at her to take her boat... dammit, her _ship_ and leave, to sail away and never come back, but for the first time her head and heart are twin anchors holding her back. Isabela knows she can't keep up her flight, her fight, her façade forever. She has noticed it more and more, and that last brawl had gotten particularly sloppy. She’s moving too slowly and losing her edge. There's a cloud around her, a thick fog soup of emotions lending hesitance to her motions, but that's not all. Her muscles burn and ache afterwards, her joints groan. Her hangovers linger. And lately her corset is having to do a lot more work to keep everything in place.

Isabela knows she won't leave yet. She will stay for Hawke, she will sit here in this stinking pit of a tavern with a piss-warm drink and a nervous gut and have the conversation they should have had when she first came back. In the end they don't talk much that makes any sense to her, she blurts some words about chances, having chances, taking chances, second... third chances and chasing horizons together and... falling. Mostly they just fall into bed. They're so bad for each other. How else can they fit so readily together after years apart if not for their own destructive natures, leaping and feeling and falling, always falling.

Hawke doesn't ask, doesn't interrogate though Isabela knows she wants to. There’s a sharp urgency when Hawke fucks her, an anger on the edge of violence that was never expressed before. Isabela doesn’t even try to claim her place on top. Every rough touch and every toe-curling thrust is a silent question, a wordless demand. Hawke wants to know why Isabela goes. Why she keeps running and running. Hawke's waited years for her and lost so much, had so much taken from her, why why why can't Isabela _stay_. Isabela feels the plea through Hawke’s teeth in her shoulder. _Please_.

Hawke allows her to roll them over when they are done, allows Isabela to straddle her hips and look down upon her. It's a mockery. Before, Hawke would always smile up at her, grin beathless and smug and sated. Now, Isabela stares at the hard body beneath her and that crooked mouth, barely parted. There's a new scar on Hawke's upper lip. A small white curl, hardly anything at all really, but Isabela has a gnawing, irrational regret she wasn't there to kiss it better, to save the playful smirk twisting into a cruel sneer.

Then there's _that_ mark, thick and red from hip to sternum. The Arishok’s blade had cut deep, so deep, past Hawke's yielding flesh and muscle and nicked Isabela’s heart. She'd fled, hadn't even stayed to see if Hawke - brave, foolish, _stupid_ Hawke - had lived.

She breaks.

She traces the angry scar with her fingers, then her scorching lips. Bathes the wound with her liar's tongue and traitor's breath. She moves back up the long body, stopping at each and every mark and blemish and finally the twist on Hawke's lip. Sucks it into her mouth, tugging and this time Isabela shows her lover the trace of an answer in her touch, begins her appeal for redemption. It's gentle and tender and apologetic and all the things she doesn't really know how to be.

Afterwards Hawke turns away from her. Like a hundred times before, Hawke won't watch her go. For the first time, she is there when Hawke wakes and Isabela doesn't know what to do with the shock and disbelief, the suspicion, the adoration in Hawke's widening eyes.

They build something, something like a relationship, tentative, laid down over weeks and months as the city's tensions rise. Hawke trusts her, brings her back into their ragtag band of misfit heroes and almost villains and she can’t for the life of her think why. Hawke is happy to be near her and Isabela doesn’t understand how. Hawke grins often, slightly forced beneath the press of responsibility. Hawke smiles sometimes, and it’s a quiet smile bent only for her, soft and thankful. Isabela drowns in it, small and unworthy, and she knows she has found purpose.

When she next leaves Kirkwall she drags the Champion along with her. Hawke is on the run, cynical and embittered. The crush of their failures, the futility of the hero a leaden burden on her back. Isabela could abandon her, it would be easy and this time there could be no return. Instead Isabela listens as Hawke grieves and rants, sobs and rages, faded and beaten, so little of that bright spark remaining. She just listens and holds her when she is done, pulls her head to her breast and strokes that messy hair. She remembers doing this once before, in a mother’s place, in a murderer's wreckage. She remembers the lost look in those big wet eyes, she remembers the old fear and she is surprised at the depth of compassion within her.

She has no idea what she is doing so she takes Hawke on adventures again. The horizon is so far and she searches as she sails, seeks the eager wildness and the easy smile, yearns for a reminder of that young, bright Hawke she first fell for. Isabela knows it's not all her fault; too many have asked too much of one woman, taken too much and assigned too much blame but still she needs the absolution. Anything to ease her guilt, wash away the idea that if only she hadn't left and left and left, if only she hadn't stomped all over trust and friendship, if only she had tried harder to be a decent human being then maybe Hawke wouldn't be quite so sad.

It takes a long time for Hawke to come back. Isabela sees the subtle easing of her shoulders first as they wander the markets of Rialto, sampling sweet, exotic fruit and tasting the juice on each other's lips. Her shadows burn away under the scorching sun of the Amaranthine Ocean and her eyes sparkle like the sea once more when Isabela takes all her coin playing cards. Hawke laughs in a Llomerynn tavern, right in a drunken lecher's face and it's beautiful and provoking and they dash madly away from the brawl before it really begins.

They don't use words like forever but Hawke’s walls crumble when Isabela demands she be her first mate, and that’s the nearest thing. They don't use words like love but Hawke wraps her arm around Isabela’s waist as the sea breeze massages their faces and sifts their hair, and it’s close enough.

Isabela doesn't object when Hawke leaves to play hero with the Inquisition. So long as Hawke doesn't do anything stupid and foolish and brave like getting herself killed she can bear to let her go. Isabela owes her that much.

**Author's Note:**

> A lot more angsty than Isabela has a right to be, I know. I'll give these two something fun to do next time.
> 
> Incidently, Hawke and Isabela were my first favourite pairing where I didn't actually have to mod it into the game. Jaheira, you haughty bitch, you broke me for Bastila and Ash and all the rest.


End file.
